Seven Rifles

Seven Rifles

By Milton E. McKinney ©

aka Breaktrack.

They lined up along the low stone rows of markers for the dead.

Uniforms crisp and clean, white gloves, a hat upon their head.

Awaiting commands to fire that last salute to send their him on,

To a well earned rest among the other heroes who had gone.

The loved ones of the hero listen to the Chaplain speak,

And think about their loss and wait for the peace they seek.

Not prepared for what has happened and what is yet to come,

They’d thought they’d get them back unharmed, not pay this awful sum.

Seven rifles, cleaned, prepared so carefully for this duty so clear.

Loving hands, so professional, check and recheck without fear.

A young face, young hands, hold each one so tightly, hoping to do well.

Follow commands, fire all as one, show our respect so clear.

The moment comes, the orders snap out, the firing party responds.

The family waits, knowing yet not knowing, to what this corresponds.

The Marines, Soldiers, Sailors or Airmen standing there at the ready.

Prepared to salute a fallen warrior, holding weapons of war so steady.

The word goes out, the guns come up, the first shots rend the air.

And people flinch, muscles tense up, a moment of silent prayer.

A little pause, another command and white gloves fire again.

Then a third round goes, all in synch, then you hear a bugle begin.

Then Taps is played as tradition calls and a line is joined you can’t ignore.

A link to the past as a long, long line of heroes march by who’ve gone before.

“Come join us comrade now that you’ve made the sacrifice so dear.”

“You’ve earned a place among us as those seven rifles made clear.”

Seven rifles, fired three times, in salute to a hero, who is lost.

Seven rifles, a fitting tribute, honor earned at such a cost.

Seven rifles, in loving hands, a sharp reminder to us all.

Seven rifles, herald the way to a rich reward, God bless them all.